


Detachment

by Anirrahn



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mobsters, Angst, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anirrahn/pseuds/Anirrahn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are different between them now and neither of them can fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detachment

**Author's Note:**

> Basically an AU where Grif works his way up in a mob, Simmons disapproves and it ruins their relationship. (Maybe he becomes a detective or cop or something?) This would take place a few years after whatever falling out they had. I apologise in advance for running with this spur of the moment idea.

When he walks into his room, Simmons is already sitting at the edge of the bed. He doesn’t look up as he comes in, intent on cleaning up the mess from the first-aid kit. Grif closes the door as carefully as he can, but it’s difficult; he’s still angrier than he’s been in a long, long time. He manages though and as the door clicks shut, Simmons glances up at him.

“Done?”

Grif thinks of his men, cringing at his words and cowering from him. He thinks about the sound it made when his fist connected with the front man’s jaw. He thinks about them tripping over their words to explain themselves and try to find a way out of the situation. He thinks about Simmons bruised face and bleeding lip.

He says nothing.

“You shouldn’t have bothered,” Simmons’s tone is light as Grif walks over to the bed and sits down at a distance, “They were right to be suspicious. I didn’t call before I came after all.”

“That’s no excuse.” Grif’s reply is curt and he wonders for a moment when exactly he became such an irritable person.

Simmons hums faintly, placing the first-aid kit on the floor, at the foot of the bed, “They were probably worried that I was gonna turn them in.”

“So?”

“So, of course they’re going to get riled up.”

“I’ve already told them!” Grif yells, voice rough and fingers gripping tightly into the sheets. He catches Simmons looking startled before he masks it the way he always seems to do now. He steadies himself, calming the rage he still hasn’t dealt with and tries again, “I’ve already told them to leave you alone. I’ve told them a hundred times to let _me_ deal with you.”

There’s a moment of silence as Grif looks up and traps Simmons’s gaze. There’s more to it. There’s so much more to it than Grif is willing to say but he doesn’t. It’s alright though, because Simmons already knows. He always does.

“And how exactly do you plan on dealing with me?” Simmons smiles at him but his eyes are cold. Grif knows this trick. They’ve played this game countless times in the past. One of them will get dangerously close to the topic of their relationship and the other will smoothly cut them off. They’ll flirt or kiss or fuck but they won’t talk about it. They never talk about it.

He’s doesn’t even remember when he got so tired of playing along.

“How’s your girlfriend?” he asks instead, rewarded by the hint of surprise in Simmons’s eyes.

“She’s fine,” he answers shortly and Grif doesn’t expect him to offer any more but he does, “Her parents came to visit last week.”

“Yeah?” he’s not sure who he’s feigning interest for.

Simmons nods and gives a hollow laugh, “Apparently they’re really thrilled with their daughter’s taste in men.”

Simmons gives him a bitter look as they fall silent again. Grif can feel the heat rising in him even as his anger boils down. Simmons shakes his head and gives a sigh, the sound of it making Grif’s throat constrict.

He leans forwards then, tugging on the collar of Simmon’s dirtied, button-down shirt and bringing them together. Their lips crash close and it takes a bit of readjustment to get it right, but they’re used to this by now; they’ve got it down to a science. Simmons’s tongue shifts along the roof of his mouth and Grif sucks on it slowly, reveling in the low moan it draws. He pulls Simmons’s lower lip into his mouth as well before remembering, too late, the blistering cut he’d received. The tangy taste of blood rests on his tongue and he feels the wince on Simmons’s face before he pulls away.

“Shit, sorry.” Grif murmurs, voice low.

Simmons flinches as his fingers touch his busted lip but he shakes his head, “It’s fine.”

He starts to say something more but Simmons gives him a look that makes his mouth run dry. His tongue flicks over the cut on his lip and his eyes close halfway as he shifts closer to Grif. He swiftly delves forward, running his tongue over Grif’s parted lips as his fingers work their way into his hair. Grif moans as he tugs his head back, whispering things that he can’t quite catch.

His hands come up to grab at Simmons’s hips, thumbs rubbing soft circles there. His grip tightens as Simmons’s leaves wet kisses down his neck, heat spreading throughout his body. He holds back a moan, shifting restlessly as he remembers something that he still needs to ask.

He pulls back, “What did you come here for?”

Simmons gives him an incredulous look, “What do you think?”

Usually, that would have been enough. Usually he doesn’t even need _that_ to be honest but, somehow, today it’s not enough. Simmons traces the lines of Grif’s mouth with his thumb. His body gives a shudder and he responds by pushing Simmons back into the mattress, straddling him. He places his hands on either side of Simmons’s head, staring down at him sharply.

“Seriously, why are you here?”

He’s quiet for a moment and then he simply shrugs, “Bad habit, I guess.”

It rings true but Grif can’t help but feel that there’s something Simmons isn’t telling him. The answer doesn’t satisfy him and he _needs_ \-- he needs to _know_. There’s just so much he’s missing now. Nothing seems to fit together like it used to. There’s a prickling pain in his chest when he thinks about how they ended up like this. Things used to be different; _better_.

He remembers lazing about on hot summer afternoons, calm and relaxed. He remembers Simmons being as uptight as always and easily embarrassed. He remembers joking around with him and he remembers Simmons laughing. He remembers kissing Simmons softly and Simmons going red and spluttering about people seeing and vehement shrieks of ‘oh god don’t do that in public what’s the matter with you?!’. He remembers sharing everything with Simmons and listening to everything he had to share. He remembers them being awkward and uncertain but being happy.

Then things changed.

He can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened. He figures it probably didn’t happen at all once; he definitely would’ve noticed that, at least. It was a build-up of different things. Little details that he brushed off and ignored, focusing instead on what he was sure was the big picture. Somehow, he got caught up in the events digging their way into his life. Then, by the time the siege was over, things just weren’t the same.

He doesn’t know where all his anger comes from. He doesn’t know where the shy, snarky guy he fell in love with went. Sometimes he thinks they must still be there; both of them-- the _real_ them, he catches himself thinking-- they’re just hidden away. They’re trapped somewhere deep and he can’t pry them out without navigating through things he’s sworn never to bring up again.

He misses them so much that it physically _aches_.

“ _Grif_.” Simmons is looking up at him with a face so red and filled with embarrased annoyance that the nostalgia almost makes him laugh, “Are you going to stop staring or…?”

His lips quirk up and he leans down to press a soft kiss onto Simmons’s mouth. As he pulls away, the shock is striking on Simmons’s face and, for an instant, it’s like everything is like it used to be. Simmons mumbles something incoherent and flushes deeply, turning his face away. Grif grins and uses the opportunity to kiss his way along his jaw and then slowly down his neck. Simmons moans in a way that rumbles within his chest and Grif nips at him appreciatively.

It’s when Grif grabs Simmons’s hands and pins them against the headboard that the moment is lost. Grif hardly notices the clinking sound of metal against metal but, in retrospect, he doesn’t know how he missed it. He only truly notices when he weaves his fingers through Simmons’s and something hard bumps up against his knuckle. Frowning, he looks at their interlaced fingers closely and what he sees stops him short.

“Not your girlfriend,” he feels like he’s barely breathing as he stares at the golden ring shining untarnished on Simmons’s finger, “Your _wife_.”

Simmons doesn’t answer and Grif doesn’t need to look down at him to know he doesn’t plan to.

“You got married.” It’s not a question and Simmons doesn’t treat it like one. Feeling winded, he tries for humour but it comes out more accusatory than he would have liked, “You didn’t invite me.”

Simmons _does_ answer then, “You wouldn’t have come.”

Grif tries to laugh but it comes out strange and broken. He wishes he didn’t feel like this. He has no right to feel betrayed. He know that he should’ve seen this coming. He’s bitter though and he wants to yell. He wants to ask who Simmons’s best man was since, obviously, he wasn’t there. He wants to remind Simmons that it’s not like he had many friends to begin with.

“When?” the question bubbles up before he can hold it back and he’s almost furious with himself that it matters so much.

Simmons pauses for a beat, “Like I said, her parents visited last week…”

Realisation dawns, “I’m guessing they weren’t just dropping by then.”

“No.” Simple, short, succinct.

Grif’s never been angrier, “You son of a bitch.”

He grips tighter onto Simmons’s hands, still braced against the headboard. Simmons winces but doesn’t say a word. Grif wishes he would. He wishes Simmons would say something so that he needn’t bother. They stay silent.

He swallows thickly, “Why did you come here?”

Then finally, _finally_ , he has his answer, “I had to.”

Simmons is looking up at him with an expression Grif recognizes perfectly. His eyes are lidded and desperate. His face is warm and his lips are parted just enough for him to take long, shuddering breaths. Simmons rolls his hip slowly underneath him and Grif bites his lip so hard he breaks skin.

“Fuck,” his voice is hoarse, “I hate you so fucking much.”

“I know,” Simmons breathes as Grif leans down and roughly kisses him, “ _I know_.”

He grinds down against him, hard and fast. There’s no more talking between them. Grif rolls his hips, quick and unrelenting, and he can feel Simmons growing hard against him. Simmons’s voice catches as he moans Grif’s name and Grif holds his hips down tightly to keep him from getting any more friction. Simmons fingers tangle into his hair and pull firmly, his need rising.

Grif lets go of his hips and puts his hands to better use. He unbuttons Simmons’s pants and slides them down, catching the waistband of his boxers as well. He pulls them down just far enough to free Simmons’s cock. Simmons gasps as the cold, night air hits him and Grif slowly wraps him finger tightly around him. Leaning closer, he presses a blunt nail against his slit. Simmons arches into him, mumbling incoherently. His hands scramble at his chest and quickly work their way down towards his jeans.

Grif turns away, ignoring the low protest Simmons gives, moving instead to rummage through his bedside drawer. He quickly finds what he’s looking for and squeezes out some lube. He rubs it between his hands to warm it up before slicking it over Simmons’s shaft. He moves his hand up and down deftly, pausing only run his thumb over the head. Simmons gives a loud, appreciate moan as Grif continues to work him, squeezing down on him at random intervals.

He feels his cock strain heavily against his jeans and it’s a welcome relief when Simmons’s manages to force his zipper down and pull him out. Simmons stills Grif’s hand on his cock, reaching out to bring them together. He wraps Grif’s hand around them both and keeps his hand on Grif’s as he sets their pace. Grif groans deeply as his dick slides roughly against Simmons’s, slicking up as lube and precome rub against it. Simmons tightens his grip around them and Grif quickens the pace.

They’re both saying things now. Words of encouragement and half-pants and moans. A lot of what he says is just a steady stream of Simmons’s name followed by a string of curses. He’s already so close. His dick twitches in anticipation as he watches Simmons lick his lips and throw his head back, breath hitching. Another series of squeezes and quick jerks has Simmons looking straight at him, eyes blazing. He pulls Grif close and kisses him fiercely, thrusting his hips up as he does so. Grif tugs at him, tight and fast, and Simmons moans into him. He whispers three words that Grif hasn’t heard from him in a long, long, time.

Grif comes with a shuddering breath, face hot and hand still working them through the waves. Simmons follows immediately after. His hand is tacky but he fists it in Simmons’s hair anyway and pulls him in for a hard, ardent kiss.

 

He doesn’t remember exactly when they end up falling asleep, though it’s hours after they first started.

 

He only wakes up when he hears the sound of a crash and someone cursing under their breath. He groans and throws an arm to the side, noticing immediately that it lands on the mattress instead of the person he expected to be laying there. He pushes himself up onto his elbows.

“Simmons?” he calls, voice groggy with sleep, “Where the hell are you going? What time is it?”

It’s still dark as far as he can tell, the curtains letting in no light from their sides. He can faintly make out Simmons’s shape by the door. Simmons is still, dark lines tense in the shadows. His figure turns.

“Sorry,” Simmons whispers, “I didn’t mean to wake you. I tripped over the first-aid kit.”

“Where are you going?” he repeats.

“I…” Simmons hesitates, then, sighing heavily, relents, “Home.”

“Skipping out on breakfast?” Grif forces a smile but he doubts that Simmons can tell in the dark, “Whatever, more for me. Guess I’ll see you around then.”

He flops onto his stomach and settles stiffly onto his pillows. He ignores the apprehension that suddenly threatens to overwhelm him and bites down on the distress working its way onto his tongue. The room is silent again save for the sounds of their breathing.

“Yeah,” Simmons's voice is hushed, “See you around.”

He doesn’t turn as he hears Simmons step towards the door. He doesn’t turn when he hears it click shut either. He doesn’t turn and, for a few moments, he doesn’t even remember to breathe.

All he does is focus on the finality of those words.

 


End file.
